


Inadvisable Qualities

by paperclipbitch



Category: Hamlet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Established Relationship, Handwaving, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 07:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6648688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a weakness, but not one that he will ever confess to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inadvisable Qualities

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally posted on LJ June 2008] More Horatio/Laertes that ignores historical details, period-appropriate language, basic geography, most Hamlet plot details, and the fact Hamlet & Horatio are probably soulmates *makes face*

With his lord Hamlet returning to Elsinore to see his parents, Horatio is left with an uncertainty as to how to spend his time. Wittenberg holds little appeal for him but for education, and Hamlet takes up so much of his time that Horatio knows few other people.

In the end, he makes the long journey to France, a crumpled letter pushed beneath his shirt. Strings of words written in cryptic passion; after all, a seal can be slit open, however honest a messenger promises to be. Words from a man who cannot be called his lover because Horatio knows better than to think that; but who nonetheless dashes off _come and visit if you have time_. Horatio always says, for every letter that he receives, that he does not have the time for a visit. And then he always seems to _find_ the time. It is a weakness, but not one that he will ever confess to.

Horatio walks into the tavern below his not-lover’s lodgings and instantly recognises a man sitting at a table. He is surrounded by people and spilling beer casually around him. The name on his mouth is _Laertes_. Horatio smiles slightly, paying for a flagon of wine and then making his way upstairs. He reminds himself not to feel anticipation because that is not the way he wants this to start.

He knocks three times on the wooden door and waits for a number of minutes before it opens. The young man who answers it is tall and slim, dark-eyed and dark-haired. His mouth is unnaturally red, as though constantly stained by wine or passion, but the lips curl into a smile as he looks at Horatio. They do not say anything for the longest moment, neither of them able to find the words. It is always like this; at first.

A group of raucous laughs echo from downstairs.

“Your father is having you followed,” Horatio offers.

Laertes’ smile stretches, showing a hint of teeth. “He wouldn’t be my father if he wasn’t.”

This is all too true. “I can leave, if you wish,” Horatio suggests.

“You’re an old friend from Denmark,” Laertes replies, as if it is so simple. “Come in.”

Horatio is not an ‘old friend’ in any sense of the words; he is certainly barely a friend and they have known each other hardly any time at all. Nonetheless he smiles, stepping inside. Laertes takes the wine from him to set it on a table awash with sheets of scattered paper, before turning and grinning at him. Horatio smiles back, genuine and warm. He should _not_ be here; and yet he is, having travelled days to see a man he told himself he would not see again.

“You have not written in months,” Laertes tells him, tone a mixture of hurt and amusement. “You did not write to tell me you were coming.”

“No,” Horatio agrees. It is the way he has always participated in this… _ritual_ of theirs, and he is not going to change that now. 

“Busy with the _prince_?” Laertes asks, tone scathing. When he is alone with Horatio, he makes no secret of the fact he is not fond of Prince Hamlet; but this outright hatred is new and unusual.

“No more so than usual,” Horatio asks carefully. He’s aware that Laertes becomes wildly jealous of anything and anyone who comes near those he has chosen to lay claim to, but there is something more than jealousy on Laertes’ handsome face. “What is wrong?”

Laertes paces a little, jaw tightening in anger. In the end, he picks a letter from the table, reading with a shaking voice. “ _Our lord Hamlet pays me such close and dedicated attention whenever he returns to Elsinore. He is sweetness itself._ ” Horatio realises that this is a letter from Laertes’ sister Ophelia. A beautiful maid, with the same dark hair and pale skin that makes her brother so difficult to resist, and who the prince has been steadily more fascinated with. Apparently, Laertes is not happy about this infatuation.

“And would you have _me_ do?” Horatio asks, a little sharply. He is aware of Hamlet’s faults, but the man is still his closest friend and he is not sure he can stand to hear what Laertes would call the prince. “Would you prefer me to woo your sister instead?”

The anger on Laertes’ face tightens. “Tell Hamlet to stay the fuck away from my sister,” he warns bluntly.

A little flame of fury ignites in Horatio’s stomach at the disdainful tone of Laertes’ voice. “That is not why I am here,” he replies. “I am not going to be an intermediary, and if that is the only reason that we do this then you can find someone else.”

Horatio turns away, angry that he has come all this way for a _lie_ , but Laertes follows him, boots echoing loudly on the floorboards. His strong hands close over Horatio’s shoulders, turning him around and pushing him back against the door. Horatio opens his mouth to warn Laertes that he is sick of games and arguments and lies, but all his protests are effectively silenced as Laertes presses his mouth hard against Horatio’s. There’s anger in his kiss, anger and exhaustion, but also real hunger.

“This is the reason we do this,” Laertes whispers, breath tickling Horatio’s face. “Or have you forgotten?”

Horatio does not _like_ Laertes, whose wants and needs seem so completely different to Horatio’s own, who cannot seem to cope with his father’s manipulation of patriarchal feelings, who seems unnaturally obsessed with his sister and her relationship with their prince. But nonetheless he writes the occasional letter, drinks with Laertes whenever he is back in Denmark, and occasionally gives in to crude and inadvisable passions with the councillor’s son.

In response to Laertes’ facile question, Horatio knots a hand into the back of the other man’s thick, dark hair and pulls their mouths back together. Laertes is beautiful, and frustrating, and everything that Horatio should not want. And yet.

Laertes almost laughs in response to the anger in Horatio’s kiss, then makes a soft little sound that Horatio swallows entirely. Laertes is slim and strong, his loose white shirt hiding the line of his body almost entirely, but that doesn’t matter because Horatio already knows it. He catches Laertes’ lower lip between his teeth, his hand falling out of the other man’s hair and instead sliding down his spine, feeling the play of muscle beneath the linen shirt. He should not want this but he does, oh lord he _does_. 

“Horatio,” Laertes murmurs, drawing the name out into a string of want and making Horatio swallow a little too hard. 

“The man your father pays to follow you around is _downstairs_.” Horatio whispers, trying to force them both into remembering sanity before it is too late. “If he discovers us-”

Laertes is not listening; he never does. He is the opposite to Hamlet, who thinks through every action at least six times before he actually does it. Horatio has never found a way to ask if his lord has ever made love before, ever _fucked_ , if only because he is worried the question will slide back to him and somehow he will say _something_ that will give away what he and Laertes do behind closed doors. But surely Hamlet’s passion would have to be thought through until it no longer resembled passion any more. 

Right now, Laertes is skimming his tongue down the side of Horatio’s neck and fumbling with the laces of his trousers. He could be subtle; but he is not.

“If he discovers us then he will at last have something to write to my father about,” Laertes responds a little breathlessly, mouth still pressed to Horatio’s skin. It makes it hard to think. “Now will you stop _worrying_ and just _fuck me_.”

Impatient, impetuous, demanding, frustrating, and impossible to refuse. 

Horatio doesn’t even _try_.

Later, naked, they lie on the bed and drink warm wine, laughing. Horatio appreciates the heavy, sweet taste on his tongue, tired eyes tracing the smooth lines of Laertes’ body, the marks of his teeth on the other man’s skin. He will be ashamed of this for weeks to come, but right now he does not mind.

“If your father finds out about this he will have me killed,” Horatio murmurs, distractedly winding one dark lock of Laertes’ hair around the tip of his finger. It is soft, like a woman’s. “The man downstairs-”

“If my father may have a man I do not see why I cannot,” Laertes murmurs, like the spoilt child that he is. So determined to become his own person that it is frustrating; Horatio knows only too well the inevitability of turning into one’s parents. 

“It is not the same and you know it,” Horatio replies, tipping his wine cup up so that the dregs spill down Laertes’ bare chest. Perhaps it is merely the idea of Polonius and his manservant doing what he and Laertes have just done that makes Horatio want to change the subject. “I am merely saying that if we are found out…”

“Reynaldo will not tell my father,” Laertes says cheerfully, and Horatio realises that Laertes actually _knows_ the man who follows him around. He supposes that it is not _entirely_ unexpected. “For one thing, he will not want to be the person to tell my father why I will not be marrying a maiden of some kind in the next year.”

Horatio smiles in spite of himself. “I suppose that has some merit,” he agrees. “You should still be more careful, though.”

Laertes rolls his eyes heavenward. “It must get tiring, always being the voice of reason.”

Laughing softly, Horatio bites the top of Laertes’ ear. “You need a little reason from time to time,” he murmurs.

The expression on Laertes’ face implies that he believes that he manages perfectly well without any reason whatsoever, and Horatio doesn’t like him enough to get into the inevitable argument. Instead, he kisses Laertes again; the other man tastes like wine and warmth and it is almost enough.

In a day or so Horatio will return to Wittenberg and school, Prince Hamlet and the life that he lives normally, and he will pretend that none of this happened in the way that he always does. Eventually, another letter from Laertes will arrive and it will begin again, in the way that it always has. He does not think that he would want it any other way.


End file.
